Two Strangers on a Train
by Mech Anon
Summary: Dirty semi public sex.


A/N: I have no intent on continuing this. Anyone who wants to play with this universe is welcome to.

Riley: Sure, can't email you because has eaten your email.

* * *

The man in the seat next to him is dark and handsome in a horsy way. His clothes scream old money as much as does his face. A discrete glance at his reservation tells John they're both bound for London.

He got on at Peterborough, bringing cold air and the smell of Starbucks, the only person to join this late train from Newcastle. The man had flung himself with careless grace into his seat, seeming to take no notice of John, his attention focused on the smart phone in his hand since he sat down. His graceful fingers moving surely across the screen.

As he settled into his seat, the stranger's body spread out until one warm leg pressed against John's, and an arm leant against the armrest brushed against John's with every bump, pulling John out of his desperate attempts at reading this month's BMJ.

John thinks it's accidental−after all, the seats are a tight fit for him, and the other man is so much taller−until the stranger's fingers brush tantalisingly along the inside of his wrist turning light circles over John's pulse point. Occasional teasing sweeps coming out to graze the pad of his thumb.

"You're an army doctor specialising in trauma." The man's voice is a drawl straight out of Eton. "How did you do at your interview? The Royal Victoria Infirmary, wasn't it?" The phone has disappeared, and his hand moves to knead John's thigh.

John shifts uncomfortably, legs spreading as he slides down his seat; the combination of adrenaline and the tosser's careful teasing bring him to unexpected hardness in his good black trousers. "What? How did you know?" He's curious about this intense aristocrat taking the time out of his undoubtedly full schedule of polo and parties to seduce a washed–out, middle-aged ex-solider.

"You were reading the BMJ, so doctor. The clothes are smart, but you're uncomfortable. Suggests a job interview. Your reservation says Newcastle to London King's Cross. That, combined with gun calluses on your fingers, and the only job opening recently advertised for at Royal Victoria Infirmary being a Trauma Specialist say army doctor." He indicated the interview pack pocking out John's briefcase. "How did you do?" He returns his hand to John's thigh, brushing against his cock on the way.

"I−" John cuts off as the hand moves up to the juncture of his thigh and hip. The back of the man's hand presses into his erection as he kneads his inner thigh, encouraging John's legs to spread as much as they can in the seat. Taking a deep breath he starts again, "I got through to the next stage."

"Want to celebrate with me?" He's is leaning over John's seat now, crowding him in, one leg in between John's, hand heavy on his crotch leaving no doubt about what he means. Seeming to see John's answer before he speaks, the man takes advantage of John's open mouth to swallow John's tongue and breath in a passionate kiss. "Come on!"

He pulls John out of his seat, ignoring the only other passenger's scandalised look as he gropes John's arse from behind. John's stomach flips uncomfortably as the everyday intrudes into this fantasy made flesh, but his cock twitches as the man's hands wander.

The stranger pushes them both into the cramped, piss-smelling train toilet, spinning John to slam him against the door. His tongue moves through John's mouth, swiping over the roof of his mouth before massaging John's tongue. John's hands grab frantically at the man's shoulders as he deftly unbuttons and pushes down John's trousers. A hand slides under his pants to palm his buttocks and massage them in time with his tongue. John grinds against the leg that seems to find its way between his at exactly the right moment.

tosser

One long finger runs a teasing path around his anus before the man draws away from John's mouth to pant in to his face. "Do you…", the man asks. He darts back down for a kiss leaving the sentence unfinished and pushing John's pants down with bruising urgency.

Something deep in John's lust-addled mind tells him that he's being impolite, and he releases his hold on the stranger's shoulders, lets his hands fall to his hips where he has to hold on tight for a long moment when the man expertly fists him. A needy whine is drawn from his throat, and the tosser smirks against John's neck. Frustrated at his lack of control, John makes himself let go of the man's hips and fumbles his trousers open. He awkwardly slides a hand down the front of the man's boxers to palm his cock, squeezing rhythmically.

The man moans and presses his forehead against John's. He lets go of John, making him moan and buck into the man's thigh and the man press fevered kisses to the edges of John's mouth. Pushing his trousers and boxers to his knees, the man says, "We don't need to. We can do this." He wraps one large hand around both of their cocks and jerks them. John's eyes roll back and his head hits the door. "Like that" the tosser croons, his mouth moving over John's neck. He bites down and John's legs give way. "Maybe not." He laughs, a dark chuckle that makes John's insides curl, letting go of their cocks to hold John up.

John whines, a reedy desperate noise, and blushes a deep red that spreads down his neck to vanish beneath his collar. The tosser kisses John until his blush recedes to an aroused flush. "I'd really like to..." His finger has returned to John's anus. Slick and slightly cool it slips into John with ease, making him gasp and clutch at the man. "Is this okay?" The finger finds his prostate. John can't keep his eyes open. He feels good, and he wants more.

He loses sense of time until the man turns him around and a blunt, thick, latex-covered cock presses slowly into him. He moans, pushing back in to the seemingly endless slide until the man is pressed tight against him and John feels as if he will burst.

The man's hands dig hard into John's hips, holding him still, until John is crying short, muffled, needy sobs. Finally, agonisingly slowly, he pulls almost fully out and shoves himself back in again. John is forced into the door, smearing the dirty metal with pre-come. If John were less aroused, he would be wondering how many other people had done this here and what he could catch; instead, John moans desperately, trying to fuck himself faster on the cock slowly penetrating him, trying to bring the fizzing tightness to a head. "Prostate slut," the man laughs brokenly, speeding up.

John's moaning constantly now, begging in an incoherent jumble. He can feel pre-come leaking down his cock as his balls tighten and his focus narrows down to the push and pull. The waves of pleasure spread out as his vision whites out and he's coming, painting the grotty metal door with his come. The man's rhythm is breaking down, his clenched fingers tightening, nails breaking skin, but John isn't feeling any pain. He's lost in the overwhelming fullness and pleasure.

Some small dark part of him is irrationally angry when the latex swallows the man's come. The man pulls out almost immediately, leaving him gaping and empty, nothing but the sharp ache in his arse to remind him of this. John feels dirty and used as he pulls his trousers up shaky legs and grabs some tissue to wipe the come off.

The man takes one more head spinning kiss before he slides out the toilet, leaving John to make the walk of shame alone.

Fin


End file.
